


Years

by meggiemellark (ohmymeggs)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymeggs/pseuds/meggiemellark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The victor is a spunky little brunette who can wield an ax like no one he's ever seen before. She's vicious and a little damaged behind her doe-like brown eyes and she meets his gaze and shakes his hand firmly, but he knows better than anyone else what pain looks like when you're trying to hide it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Years

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this almost a year ago (before the interview where SC revealed which Hunger Games Johanna won) but never got around to cross-posting it. I'm labeling it as canon divergence, seeing as how we now know that Johanna won the 71st games. I hope it doesn't throw anyone off.

67.

The victor is a spunky brunette who can wield an ax like no one he's ever seen before. She's vicious and a little damaged behind her doe-like brown eyes and she meets his gaze and shakes his hand firmly, but he knows better than anyone else what pain looks like when you're trying to hide it.

He isn't surprised when President Snow claps him on the back and tells him he's been charged with introducing the newest victor to their particular brand of ambassadorial work—he'd done it last year, too—but he isn't expecting the feisty victor from Seven to tremble uncontrollably as he hooks his fingers around the thin straps of her bra and slides them down over her shoulders.

"I..." she breathes. "I've never..."

He shushes her. "It's okay. I have."

As his tongue teases at the corners of her mouth, he wants to stop—wishes he could—but they both have themselves to protect, and President Snow doesn't take kindly to any rebellious behavior. So he uses his strong, broad hands to guide her body underneath his.

She doesn't even cry. Most of the cry the first time, at least in his experience. But she's stoic and almost empty as he indoctrinates her into the winner's circle. She rolls away from him afterwards and cradles her head in her hands.

He doesn't speak until he's almost certain she's asleep and even then he can only whisper.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

 68.

For whatever reason, it always seems like the tributes from the previous year's winning district are the first to die. The year after Johanna Mason's victory is no different, and she slumps onto the couch beside Finnick just before the anthem blares over the television speakers.

He slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in tightly. Both his tributes are still alive for the time being, even though one took a particularly nasty blow to the head at the Cornucopia, but he remembers being a young mentor. He presses his lips to her temple.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to do this every fucking year," she says quietly, running her hands through her short hair.

He shrugs. "It gets easier."

"Finnick Odair, cynic at seventeen," she snorts, gripping his hand as it rubs small circles on her bare shoulder.

"Yeah, well." He keeps his eyes trained on the television. The camera's focusing on his female tribute, the one with the concussion, so it probably means she doesn't have many breaths left.

Johanna's lips work against the rough exterior of his fingertips and she draws his thumb fully in between her plump lips.

He sighs. "Jo."

"How long has it been?" she whispers, withdrawing his digit from her mouth and lacing her fingers through his.

"Reaping Day, you know that." They aren't allowed to entertain guests while they're supposed to be preparing their tributes for the games. As much as he hates the Games and everything they stand for and everything they've done to his life, he's grateful for this brief reprieve he gets from scores of lovers who all look exactly the same with the unpleasantly dyed skin and surgically modified cheek bones.

"No." She tucks her heels under her rear. "That's not what I meant..." Johanna slides her thin hands under his crisp shirt and rakes her fingernails over his chest.

Finnick rests his head on the back of the couch. "Jo."

She presses a finger to his lips and slithers onto the floor from her spot on the couch. "You know what I meant, don't you?"

He nods and hisses lightly as her hand grazes the front of his pants as it tracks up to his belt buckle and tugs lightly until it gives way.

"Jo..." he says again, breathier this time, and he can feel his resolve slipping away on the rushes of blood that track directly to his groin. As much as he hates it, it's an automatic reaction for him now. 

She winks at him wickedly before she grips him tightly and pumps her hand a few times. 

The cannon sounds for his tribute right after he comes in her mouth.

* * *

69.

They lose all four of their tributes in the first five minutes of the Games, so there's nothing left to do but tear through the multicolored bottles on the drink cart on the seventh floor of the training center.

Her cheeks burn hotter with every pull she takes from the dark red wine and before she knows it, she's actually giggling for the first time in God knows how long.

"You're drunk," he slurs as he pulls her onto his lap.

She merely grins in response and throws her arms around his neck.

"So am I," he half-whispers before erupting into drunken guffaws that make her whole body shake as they resonate from his body to hers. They stop before too long and he tucks a piece of hair behind her right ear. "You remember what you asked me last year? How long it had been?"

"Since Reaping Day," she recites his own words back to him. "You know that."

"No," he says and lowers his lips to the sensitive hollow just behind her ear. "You know what I meant."

Johanna gasps as he suckles her skin gently and that all-too-familiar rush of heat between her legs that causes her to buck her hips just as the tiniest bit is all the go ahead he needs.

He flips her onto the couch and settles himself between her legs, rubbing against her center teasingly while he continues his attack on her neck. There's a reason he's the most requested victor of all time, but she forces those thoughts from her mind as his lips trail over her collarbone.

As her fingernails grip desperately at the slick upholstery of the couch, and his tongue works around the bundle at the apex of her thighs, she's fairly certain that this is  _not_ part of President Snow's ambassadorial plan.

* * *

70.

Annie Creta, the quiet, dark-haired girl from four might actually fucking win the thing if she can just out-swim the rest of them.

Finnick hates her. He says she's weak and unfocused and unworthy of the advice he gave her about actually trying when she was in the arena. And while Johanna knows that he doesn't want little Annie Cresta to die out there in the floodwaters, she can't help but wonder if he's kissing her throat right now to keep his mind off the fact that he might have actually saved someone's life.

"How long's it been, Johanna?" he whispers against her neck. "How long's it been for you? And save me the 'since Reaping Day' bullshit. You and I both know that's not what I mean."

She sighs. She knows exactly what he means; she's the one who started this game in the first place. But she doesn't answer him, not yet. Because his hand hasn't tracked low enough on her stomach, his fingers haven't started teasing at the band of her thin pants. And even though he hasn't kissed her on the mouth yet, she can practically feel herself dripping from her arousal from the pressure of his lips on her neck.

Finnick cups her crotch with his hand and squeezes firmly. A devious grin spreads across his face when his palm meets the damp heat. "How long?"

It's been three weeks since she'd sunk her face between the mint-green thighs of a Capitolite and made her come so hard she'd almost ripped out a handful of hair; two days prior to that since she'd had proper dick. But Finnick's question is deeper than that.

His right hand slips under the hem of her shirt and palms a small breast lightly. "How long's it been since someone made you scream? How long's it been since your eyes rolled back in your head and you lost yourself completely? How long's it been since it meant something?"

Johanna clasps his face between her hands and kisses him firmly, right on those perfectly plump lips that have been avoiding her all evening. She breaks their contact with a light smack and he breathes heavily, taken by surprise.

"Since last year," she says quietly, his hands stilling against her skin. "You know that."

His eyes go wide momentarily as he realizes exactly what she means and he yanks her pants down to her knees and sheaths himself inside her before he can over-think it. He pauses, buried to the hilt, and just stares down at her large brown eyes.

She grunts quietly and shifts her hips just enough to remind him of what he's supposed to be doing, and he drive himself in and out of her over and over until she's writhing uncontrollably and clawing at his arms, begging him for that last bit of friction to send her careening over the edge. Finally, her mouth falls open into a wide 'O' as she shudders and gasps his name and he finds his own release shortly thereafter.

Johanna is draped across the couch sipping a bottle of wine when he finishes cleaning up and emerges from the small bathroom. She holds the bottle out to him as he crosses to her and he takes it gratefully, knowing full well that the news she's about to share is bad—the Games are over and his tribute, this tiny Annie girl is dead, and tomorrow he'll go back to being the most sought-after victor ever.

But she motions toward the television set. "Your girl won," she says quietly, before tipping the bottle back to her lips and draining the rest of the liquid.

* * *

71.

Annie cries uncontrollably when their tributes are electrocuted by targeted lightning.

Finnick leaves her on the floor of the training center and finds Johanna upstairs. They share a bottle of wine and a handful of secrets and each other's bodies once again.

* * *

72.

Johanna's already turned in for the evening when he comes up to the seventh floor to make sure she's handling herself—and her liquor—all right. If the fifteen tributes killed at the Cornucopia are any indication, these games will be over quickly, which means they'll be right back at work sooner, which means Johanna will spend the remainder of the games in bed, cherishing the time alone.

He leaves instructions with the Floor Seven Avox to make sure Johanna has a fresh pitcher of water of her nightstand in the morning, and he crawls into bed alone.

* * *

73.

"You love her."

It's a statement and he knows she isn't a bit wrong, even if it is completely crazy that he's become so attach to poor, mad Annie Cresta. He just nods. "I think so."

"Well, I'm happy for you both." Johanna nods and crosses her arms over her chest.

He isn't convinced but she's turned and stormed away before he works up the courage to say so.

* * *

74.

The Star-Crossed Lovers from District Twelve remind her all too much of her own demons, so she goes out of her way to avoid him.

* * *

75. 

Johanna tenses as he sidles up behind her and offers her a damn sugar cube. She turns up her nose and focuses on Cashmere's hands, working the cording into a messy knot.

"Don't bother," he whispers. "You know I've got knots down."

She shrugs, the only indication of his present she's willing to admit.

"How long's it been?" His voice is right in her ear and low and she can just barely feel his lips ghosting the sensitive shell.

"You already know the answer..." She turns to him, brown eyes meeting green, and sighs. "Since the last time with you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to visit me at my tumblr page @ meggie-mellark.


End file.
